Born to Kill: Deathstroke
by snowman1989
Summary: Slade returns with a vengeance to finally destroy the Teen Titans and re-establish himself as one of the DCU's deadliest villains, all while his eventful and tragic origin story is revealed! Failure is not an option! Rated T for language.
1. Escape From Abadan

Hello! I'm back with my next story, exploring the origins of Slade as he seeks to rebuild his shattered reputation as one of the DCU's most dangerous villains (hope that he doesn't succeed)! So in essence, this is two stories in one. I might continue this as a series: I already have ideas for the Joker, Lex Luthor and Scarecrow.

Although I have done much research into his comic book character on the Internet, my interpretation will inevitably deviate from the comics, largely because I don't have access to the comics myself, and I want to account for his behaviour in the animated series (which really screwed him over). I don't think the series did him justice because originally, he was more of an antihero and seriously kicked ass. I'm writing this fanfic to set the record straight as to what kind of person he really is, and why he is one of the greatest comic book villains of all time. I hope this portrayal remains true to his character.

A warning: this fanfic contains strong language and disturbing images. You know, like _Mannequin._

I hope you enjoy it.

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Teen Titans or Deathstroke the Terminator.

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_War is_

_A grave affair of state;_

_It is a place_

_Of life and death,_

_A road_

_To survival and extinction. _Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

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**Born to Kill: Deathstroke**

**Chapter 1: Escape from Abadan**

Slade typed away at his supercomputer at his last remaining hideout, determined to find a new way to defeat the Titans. He had definitely seen better days. Once, he'd had control of several underground factories that had churned out hundreds of advanced Slade-bots, giving him a private army that required minimal maintenance and were completely loyal to him. His name had inspired fear and dread amongst even the most seasoned of superheroes. He had even taken control of the whole city once.

But all of that had started to fall apart when he first went up against the Teen Titans. He'd had his eye on Robin for a while, eager to remodel him as his apprentice; his corruption would have been a serious blow to the Titans' morale. But his indomitable spirit and resolve to serve the cause of justice had been stronger than Slade had anticipated, and so he had been forced to retreat, his hideout in ruins, and his secret identity almost revealed.

His luck had not improved the second time around, either. The geomancer Terra had been an eager agent in trying to destroy her former friends, almost succeeding, but at the last second had betrayed him and thrown him off a precipice toward a fiery grave, his other hideout lost to a volcanic eruption.

It should have been the end of him. But he had made a Faustian bargain with the demon Trigon to serve him and in exchange the demon would restore him back to life. But once again, he had been betrayed and left to rot in the midst of the apocalypse. But he had overcome all the odds, and had helped the Titans send Trigon to his doom.

Fighting the Teen Titans was indeed very costly. He had only one hideout left, his fortune nearly gone, his resources limited, but his numerous defeats made him all the more determined to finally destroy his stubborn enemies. Once he had made a vow, he stuck to it, and no force from heaven or hell would be able to change his mind. But there was one noticeable change in Slade: after the Trigon debacle he had resolved to strengthen his code of ethics. If he had learned anything, it was that a bad code got you into a whole world of trouble. Sending one of his robotic duplicates to order Beast Boy to leave an amnesiac Terra alone had been an attempt to redeem his sense of honour.

But that changed nothing. They were still his enemies. And they would fall by his hand. Sooner or later.

Finally, he came across something. He had hacked into the Searchers, Inc. website, an organisation specialising in research and espionage. There was always plenty to find there. One job and name caught Slade's eye. Concerning a new substance. Underneath the mask his mouth stretched into a grin. Within seconds, he had formulated a complex plan that would not only solve his money woes but also serve to finally achieve his ultimate goal.

He got to work, readying his remaining robots, perfecting his plans and doing his homework on his target. He had no one to help him. He worked alone. But it had not always been like that…

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**20 Years Earlier, Abadan, Iran.**

Slade cursed his rotten luck. True, he was a pretty gung-ho, hands on guy, but not _this _gung-ho and hands on.

Major Slade Wilson, a long-time member of the United States Navy SEALs, had been sent on what was, for all intents and purposes, a suicide mission. He was currently taking cover from inside an abandoned mud-brick house while Iranian soldiers fired bullets and mortars at his position. The Iran-Iraq War was now in full swing, and after a successful first few months of invasion, Iraq's advances had stalled at the city of Abadan, and Iran was sending wave after wave of conscript soldiers that were beginning to take its toll on the Iraqis. Because the USA supported Iraq (and was making big profits in selling guns to both sides), a small team of elite soldiers had been sent by General Sampson to assist the Iraqis and help keep the war going. Of course, the soldiers were never told anything about the dealing.

Or that they had been ordered to their deaths.

A stray bullet struck the edge of Slade's helmet, knocking it clean off. His crystal blue eyes widened in surprise, but ever vigilant, he instantly dropped to the ground and crawled into the devastated lounge to retrieve his helmet. Covered in rubble and dust, he picked it up and replaced it on top of his handsome, short blond hair. Inside the lounge, Private Dylan came up from amongst a group of three American troopers huddled against the wall, all wearing the same sandy brown combat fatigues.

"Slade! What are we gonna do? Any second now, they'll surround us! We're screwed!"

Slade silently agreed. Most of the Iraqi Army had been forced back as far as three miles and the ones that were still here were beginning to fall like flies. Worst of all, their radio had been destroyed in the last firefight. But he had nerves of steel honed over years of combat all over the world, and nothing ever made him worry or give up.

"Pull yourself together, you're supposed to be a SEAL, so act like one, dammit!" said Private Perlman harshly.

"We need to think of something fast, those ragheads will bust through the barricade shortly." said Private Plisskin. "Any ideas?"

Slade, ever the practical one, simply fired his M16 rifle, made a circle of bullet holes in the mud-brick wall, and kicked it outward onto the parched garden.

Everyone quickly filed out, Plisskin muttering about how he "was thinking of doing that."

Two Iranian soldiers came around the house and were promptly gunned down by Dylan. But the commotion quickly attracted more soldiers who came around both sides of the house, cursing them in Persian, and forcing the Americans to run through a hole in a half-collapsed brick wall, Plisskin and Dylan on the left, Slade and Perlman on the right of the gap.

"How far to the river?" shouted Slade above the deafening smattering of bullets against the wall.

"I'd say about a full klick." Perlman shouted back, turning for a split second to pick off a stray enemy soldier. "We'd never make it with these ragheads breathing down our necks, though."

"Then let's lose 'em." grunted Plisskin, pulling the pin off a fragmentation grenade with his teeth, waiting a few seconds, then lobbing it over the wall.

There was some frantic, incomprehensible yelling and curses, then a large explosion showered the area behind the SEAL's side of the wall with rubble, soil and shrapnel. But the Americans didn't check for casualties, using the distraction to run, duck, weave and cover themselves as they manoeuvred through the ghost city. Ever since the war had started, most of the city's population of over 400,000 had fled further east out of harms way. Only soldiers and civilians-turned-guerrillas remained.

But Slade was a master of guerilla warfare, and knew every explicit detail of how to counter the moves of every would-be sharpshooter. In fact, he was the best in the SEALs. He lead them through the empty city, using every possible hiding place to their advantage.

Only one person had ever bested him…

A single, loud bang echoed in the street as the SEALs neared the Shatt al-Arab river.

The SEALs halted behind an abandoned truck. Dylan looked as if he was about to say something, but then keeled over and fell to the concrete, bleeding profusely from his chest.

Plisskin quickly checked Dylan while the others searched for the sniper. Problem was, they were in a street full of apartment buildings and there were hundreds of windows to choose from.

Plisskin crawled back to the others to convey the bad news.

"He's dead." Plisskin said in a low monotone.

There was a solemn moment of silence, broken by Perlman. "We don't have time for this bullshit! The ragheads are right on our tails!"

Slade saw a flash of movement in the apartment building above them. He took careful aim and fired a single shot.

Fifteen stories above them, a black figure fell from the window and landed on top of the truck with a loud thud.

Plisskin was impressed. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

"At the NRA." Slade said. It was impossible to tell if he was serious or not.

"How good are you?" asked Perlman.

"Put an apple on your head sometime, and then you'll see." replied Slade.

A hail of gunfire from the other side of the street broke up the conversation. The Iranian battalion had just caught up with them.

Everyone ran inside the apartment building just as the truck exploded from an Iranian grenade, smashing all the windows and forced Perlman to the floor just as Slade and Plisskin got behind the secretary's desk. His back needled with glass shards, Perlman tried to get back up, but was gunned down by several soldiers who had just entered through the still-burning doorway.

Slade and Plisskin returned fire with a vengeance for their fallen friend. But with every soldier they killed, two more seemed to appear to take their place, and the entire atrium was about to be overrun.

Slade seethed with hatred and fury. It was all too clear that Sampson had ordered them to this hellhole to perish. He had always been that much of an asshole. But the thing that _really _pissed him off was that the bastards shooting and killing them were using the exact same American weaponry that they were using! The same pistols, rifles, kevlar, grenades, even the ammunition was identical!

The Iranians lobbed four grenades over the desk. Slade and Plisskin scrambled out of the way and made a dash for the hallway, but Plisskin was caught between the soldiers and Slade. The bullets shredded him to pieces all over the hallway just as the grenades destroyed the atrium.

Slade zig-zagged across the hallway before jumping through the window at the end. Everything was a blur. All his teammates were dead, he was alone with no radio, no backup and to cap things off, he was nearly out of ammo. He focused solely on running down the narrow backstreets.

He was very close to the river now. It was literally just across the street.

Which was now a minefield.

Slade swore under his breath. He could hear the soldiers yelling and running toward him. Thinking fast, he picked up a trashcan and threw it onto the street.

Fortunately for him, the mines had been placed very close to one another, so one detonation set them all off in a chain reaction. Slade's instincts screamed for him to run for the river but he thought better of it. He'd be totally exposed with nowhere to hide. He was running out of options by the second.

The Iranians arrived at the crater that was once their road, but found no sign of the infidel invader. The leader barked out orders, and they began to fan out and search the area, poking through garbage, peering through windows and taunting Slade in harsh Persian.

Slade held his rifle to his head behind a ancient looking stove in an abandoned, dusty kitchen. He knew this was the end. There were too many of them, and they would find him any second and kill him. Plain and simple. But not without a fight.

Just as he was prepared to throw himself into the enemy, the loud clatter of M16s once again filled the streets and began to mow down the Iranians. Taken by surprise, they attempted to find cover, but found the street devoid of anything to hide behind. Only a lucky handful managed to jump through the windows and make a run for it, but the majority were peppered with blood and lead.

Slade sighted a patrol boat float into view nearby, the US Naval Ensign flag fluttering in the wind, with the thirteen red and white stripes, yellow snake and the words "**DON'T TREAD ON ME" **in bold black letters.

"Come on out, Slade! The coast is clear!" shouted a familiar voice.

Slade came out casually, but couldn't hide the grin. "Wintergreen, you old seadog! Took you long enough!"

"I apologize, but Sampson held me up." Wintergreen shouted back, with an air of distain regarding the treacherous general. "Where are the others?"

"They didn't make it."

Wintergreen bowed his head down gravely. "Sampson has a lot to answer for. Hurry up and get on board, we'll cover you." He nodded to the two men in the machine gun turrets on the deck.

Slade scrambled onboard and embraced Wintergreen warmly. William Randolph Wintergreen was an old friend of Slade, literally and figuratively speaking. He looked to be in his mid fifties, with a greying and receding was slightly wrinkled and appeared deceptively frail, but he was one of the navy's most experienced marines and a decent sharpshooter. Ever since they had first meet at Camp Washington base, they had been thick as thieves, despite the fact that Wintergreen came from a distinguished British aristocratic family, while Slade hailed from far more modest backgrounds.

Wintergreen turned to the man behind the controls. "Alright skipper, we have Slade, let's move out! I don't want to stay any longer than I need to."

The skipper nodded, and steered the patrol boat out towards the Persian Gulf. Wintergreen lowered his voice and wispered in Slade's ear: "I have information that you'll be interested in. Information…" he handed a file over to his comrade, "…that will hopefully get our dear old friend Sampson court-martialed. Here are the papers."

Slade, who was still depressed over the loss of his comrades, instantly began to cheer up as he leafed through them. "Wintergreen, how did you get this?"

The old man smirked. "I learned all the tricks of the trade at NIS."

Slade finished reading and closed the file, grinning like the devil. "That bastard's about to get deep fried. Medium-rare."

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Yes, Slade is way out of his usual character. But remember, this is before he became the world's greatest mercenary. I had to rewrite a lot of his background so that it would fit more effectively with the animated series and our present timeline. For instance, I think he first saw combat in Korea in the 1950's in the comics, and I'm sure he wasn't a Navy SEAL (but an elite soldier squad would have been right up his alley). General Sampson was in the comics, and from what little I've gleaned, he was indeed an asshole, and sent Slade and Wintergreen on suicide missions. Wintergreen was originally in the British Army and served in MI5 and was aristocratic in manner. As for Slade, I don't know his pre-soldier background. But he did lie about his age to join the army (he was 15).

In case you didn't know, Perlman is a reference to the actor who voices Slade in the animated series. Plisskin refers to Snake Plisskin from the cult classic _Escape from New York_, who acts in a manner not unlike Deathstroke.

Oh., and by the way, NIS stands for Naval Investigative Service. It would be later renamed NCIS (Naval Criminal Investigative Service) in 1992. Yup, it's a real agency, and not just a CSI ripoff!

I have some more stories planned for 2009 which I hope you'll enjoy. Merry Christmas to everyone, and a happy new year!


	2. Family Guy

I'm back with the next chapter, with a guest appearance by another major comic book villain that needs no introduction. Sorry it took so long, I've had a lot of stuff on my plate. Expect me to be slow in my updates in both _Born to Kill _and _Cold Reception._

**DISCLAIMER: **Last time I checked, I didn't own Teen Titans or Deathstroke. I checked again, and I still don't own them.

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_Employ me,_

_And victory is surely yours. _Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

_----------------------------------------------------_

**Chapter 2: Family Guy**

**Present Day, Metropolis, United States**

The office was enormous. The middle of the floor was covered in the finest velvet red carpet with several ornamental plants arranged perfectly in two rows between the carpet and the high one-way-glass windows, layered with gold and soundproofed, offering a 360 degree view of Metropolis. At the far end of the office was a spotless clean mahogany desk with papers neatly stacked to one side and an American flag behind it. Most of the papers contained information about stocks, shares and other important company information.

But the papers that Lex Luthor was pouring over had nothing to do with how well LuthorCorp was doing. He was reading all about Steve Dayton's revolutionary new wonder metal from his secret operatives, and he wanted it. In his never-ending battle for supremacy against the Man of Steel, he wanted everything that could give him a potential advantage over the most powerful person on the planet.

"Facinating." he murmured under his breath.

"Indeed it is." agreed a new, suave voice.

Luthor jumped up in his seat, papers flying all over the place. To his left stood a heavily armoured man wearing a mask that was black on the right side of his face and orange on the left, from which a solitary blue eye regarded Luthor shrewdly.

"Deathstroke! How did you get past my security?"

"Very easily." Deathstroke didn't elaborate. "Don't bother trying to call for it now. It has been neutralised. Down to the little red button you are pressing under your desk."

He was right. Luthor's security console beneath his desk was unresponsive.

Luthor scowled at the mercenary. "I hope you didn't kill anyone. Blood makes an awful mess, you know."

"Don't worry. I wouldn't waste my energy on those pathetic greenhorns."

Luthor reclined back in his luxurious leather armchair. "So what brings you here, Mr. Wilson? Trouble with those playground terrorists?"

It was Deathstroke's turn to glare. "That does not concern you."

"It might." He said casually, putting his hands behind his bald head. "I have plans for expanding LuthorCorp into the West Coast. And from what I've heard, you'll need all the help you can get if you want to rid yourself of a few bratty teenagers."

Deathstroke cracked his knuckles. "Need I remind you that I could kill you right here and now?"

"I doubt you will. Otherwise you would have done so already. You obviously want something."

"Very perceptive. I heard about your interest in the metal known as Promethium. And I'd like to deliver it to you."

Luthor raised an eyebrow. "I thought you quit mercenary work?"

"I decided to come out of retirement."

Luthor considered Deathstroke's offer of help. Before he had pitted himself against the Teen Titans, Deathstroke had been universally recognized in the criminal underworld as the ultimate mercenary. He was efficient, dependable and had a virtually stainless record of success. But most of all, he was trustworthy, and carried out instructions to the letter. That being said, you had to be very precise and careful in describing what you wanted done.

"Very well, Terminator," Luthor accepted. "What do you know about the new metal?"

"Only that it can double not only as a powerful energy source, but as a highly durable alloy when mixed with vanadium and titanium."

"Near indestructible, apparently." Luthor added. "You can see my interest in it."

Deathstroke looked at Luthor curiously. "Why do you continue in these fruitless attempts to kill Superman? You cannot win."

Luthor's face darkened with rage. "I have my reasons, let's just leave it at that." But the mercenary noticed Luthor's hand fly up slightly, as if to stroke his scalp. "Returning to the matter at hand."

"Of course. Please continue. I will need all the intelligence that you can give me."

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**19 years ago, somewhere in Virginia**

Far to the west of Richmond, at the foot of the forest-clad Blue Ridge Mountains was a humble looking wooden cottage that seemed to half blend in with the surrounding oak and chestnut forest. In front of the house was a wide field of lush emerald grass sprinkled with colourful wildflowers.

Slade Wilson strode up the gravel pathway in his army uniform, past the neatly ordered rose bushes to the unlocked front door. Because the Wilsons lived in such a relatively remote area, thieves were not a problem. Of course, you had to travel an extra bit further to get groceries, but the peace and tranquility after a solid month of military campaigns was worth it. He had to admit, Adeline could really pick a house.

Slade stepped inside the kitchen. It was old fashioned, with much of the floor and walls made of polyurethaned oak wood. A pot of water boiled on top of a gas stove, the blue flames licking the bottom of the copper pot.

But there was no cook.

Slade treaded quietly through the kitchen and into the living room. The room was small, but furbished in a rich red carpet with a couch and a small television. There was no sign of life here either.

He checked Grant's room. The walls were painted blue and the room was stuffed with toys. Many of them were teddy bears and other assorted stuffed animals, but there were a few toy soldiers strewn over the floor and bedspread.

Slade quietly walked toward the small bed where his three year old son Grant was sleeping. He looked so much like him; he had handsome, golden blond hair with pale blue eyes, hidden behind his closed eyelids. He'd be a great man one day, he thought to himself proudly.

**CLICK.**

Slade sighed in disappointment and turned around to face his wife, armed with a pistol aimed at his head. He didn't raise his hands.

"You got me again, Addie." Slade said calmly.

"You always let your guard down." Adeline smirked.

"Do you mind putting that thing away?" Slade asked playfully. "You'll shoot an eye out one of these days."

Adeline lowered her gun and walked toward Slade. She had a natural beauty, unlike all the others who hid behind their dyed hair and mascara. She had lustrous brown hair, circular gold earrings and intelligent hazel eyes. But Slade hadn't married her just for her looks. Although she looked like your average American housewife in her red dress and shirt, she was one of the best military instructors in the US Army, specialising specifically in guerrilla warfare. She was literally Slade's mentor, and no matter how hard he tried to beat her at her own little game, she always came out with the gun to his head.

She embraced Slade, kissing him warmly for a few seconds on her tiptoes.

She released him. "How did it go?"

Slade's carefree expression was quickly erased, becoming somewhat stony. "He got off."

"You're joking." she said, visibly shocked. "There was enough evidence to court-martial his arse to the chair!"

"All Sampson got was a lousy reprimand. A slap on the hand."

"But they must have known about his dealings with the Iranians! That's treason!"

"He has some powerful connections." Slade spat bitterly. "Apparently he has a stake in the arms industry, who literally made a killing in the war. His reputation may be tarnished, but he's off the hook thanks to some of his 'friends' there and in the military."

Adeline looked saddened. "I don't know what else to say. You did what you could."

"Did I? Three good men died needlessly in that hellhole, and have died for nothing that mattered to them. I knew them all since I joined up." Slade looked visibly upset and angry. His friends were like the brothers he never had, and he couldn't stand to lose them. Adeline could only wonder as to what would happen if his family were threatened.

"I wish I could just kill the bastard." he snarled.

"Daddy? What's wrong?" groaned Grant, rubbing his eyes.

Slade started, calming down a little. "Sorry dear boy, I'm just a little bit angry. Go back to sleep."

He ruffled Grant's hair affectionately and tucked him back in. Then he and Adeline backed out the bedroom door and closed it shut.

"You should spend more time with him." she said.

"Hmm?"

"He hardly sees you because of work. It would be nice if you could play with him. Take a break from all this crap. You are the strongest and most determined man I know. But you aren't a superman."

Slade hesitated, then nodded. "You're right. There's nothing more I can do. For now." He added.

He went back into Grant's room, where his son had obviously been listening in on their conversation.

"Grant, how would you like to go fishing with your old man?"

Grant's eyes lit up excitedly. "Yeah!"

Adeline frowned. "Honey, we don't have any fishing rods."

"Who's talking about rods?" Slade grinned, loading up his pistol.

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I decided on contrasting the kind of company Slade associates with at present with what he had in the past. Grant was Slade's first son in the comics and is pivotal to Slade's story. Adeline was Slade's wife in the comics as well, and also has a big part to play later on.

Not a great chapter, in my opinion. I've been caught up in a lot of stuff, so I'm going to be slow. Regardless, I'd like to know what you think.


	3. Overachiever

I once again must apologize for being away for so long. I guess I'm just lazy and I don't get in the mood often enough. But I guess a little routine wouldn't kill me.

Once again, I'm not writing any more disclaimers. They're pointless, and besides, DC can't sue us.

This chapter was a little knarly for me to get through, and (to me) not up to scratch. But I wanted to get over the writers block so I can get to the jucier parts of the story. I promise there'll be more action and intrigue next chapter.

Oh, and top marks go to anyone who can find the action movie homage.

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**Chapter 3: Overachiever**

**Present Day, Dayton Industries, Sierra Nevada Compound, California**

"One O'Clock in the mornin' and _aaaaaaaallllllllllllllllllllllllssssssssssss weeeeeeeelllllllllll!" _Frances called out in an obnoxious, nasaly tone.

Trent rubbed his hand over his face in irritation. "Yes, Frances. I know. And all will be well in an hour. And tomorrow. And the next day. And a month from now. SO SHUT THE HELL UP!" he roared, throwing his empty Starbucks cup at his uniformed partner from his chair.

Frances swiftly ducked as his cellphone received another text.

**DADA _DO DA_, DADA _DO DA_, DADA _DO DO DAAAA!_**

"AND CHANGE THAT BLOODY RINGTONE! OR SO HELP ME, I'LL PUT THAT THING SO FAR UP..."

Frances rolled his eyes, shut the door in his co-worker's purplish-beetroot face and whistled his way through his night watch. Trevor's obscenities faded into the monotonous, blank hallways, offices and minor laboratories that made up the ground floor of Dayton Industries. God, this was boring enough to make even paint drying fun to watch. He didn't know why Trent never saw any humour in life. It makes you live longer.

He briefly took a peek in the small cramped kitchen, where the rest of his co-workers were smoking, laughing and gambling away their life's savings.

"Hey, Frances!" one of them called out. "How 'bout a game of Blackjack?"

Frances smiled knowingly. "No thanks. I'm asthmatic, and I'd prefer to be able to feed my family." Truth was, they were pros, and he just plain sucked.

"Suit yourself." The others laughed good naturedly and continued.

A minute later down the narrow hallway, Frances wished that he had joined them. The boredom was simply unbearable. Time to irritate his favourite stressball with his trademark drawl...

"One-Fifteen in the mornin' and aaaaaaa..."

His voice trailed off into a squeak. Trent was in his chair, but his face was contorted into a horrified grimace, fresh blood dripping from the side of the mouth, his veined head having been completely twisted around like a bottlecap to face his frightened co-worker.

Frances wanted to scream, but all the air seemed to have left his lungs, suffocating him, dizzying him.

He stumbled back towards the kitchen, gasping for air, his shoes slipping and sliding on the spotless marble floor, racing through the claustrophobic hallway to tell his fri...

Frances stood in the doorway of the kitchen, eyes bulging at the horror laid out before him.

Scattered around the round table were what was left of his friends. One look at one of his freshly _eviscerated_ mates had him rooted to the spot, unable to breathe or think, mesmerised. This couldn't be real...

**DADA _DO DA_ DADA _DO DA_ DADA _DO DO DAAAA!_**

He turned around...

and his forehead gently connected with the cold steel of a double barreled shotgun.

"Silence your cellphone." Slade said.

**BLAM!**

Slade pressed a button on his mask near his ear, the fresh blood still trickling down the walls.

"Deathstroke to Mockingbird."

"Mockingbird here. I see you have efficiently removed the opposition." Luthor had insisted on codenames and a voice distortion device in the communication systems. Smart man.

"Opposition? This place is a barrel, and they were the fish."

"Poetic. Do you insult every enemy you defeat so disparagingly?"

"I have no time for losers, Mockingbird. And unless you have anything important to say, I suggest you keep the comm link silent."

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**19 years ago, Camp Washington Military Base**

Lieutenant William "Bill" Walsh eyed his target carefully from along the length of his rifle, and then fired. Within a second the bullet raced across the flat grassy plain to rip through the circular cardboard target board 150 metres away.

Bill nodded in satisfaction through his binoculars. A perfect bulls-eye.

Lieutenant Colonel Slade Wilson snorted behind Bill. "That's no challenge! Want to see something better?"

Bill lowered his rifle, growling under his breath. "Yeah. I'd like you to piss off."

Slade ignored him. "The SEALs are all about pushing your limits. Thinking outside the square. But all I see you doing day after day during rifle practice is the same old bull's-eye crap. Everyone here can do it."

Bill fumed. "I don't need you to tell me what I should be doing!"

Slade held up his hands. "No need to get angry. I'm just trying to help you get better. I'll show you what I mean."

Slade went over to the rifle range controls and set up a new target far away past all the others, whistling whimsically as he did so. Bill needed his binoculars just to see it clearly.

Bill put down the binoculars. "You aren't serious."

"No." Slade replied. "I'm _dead_ serious."

"But that target's half a mile away!"

Slade raised an eyebrow. "And your point is…?"

"Never mind. Let's see you screw this up." Bill said, standing to the side to watch, a taut smile on his face. Slade had always been a cocky bastard who thought too highly about his own abilities and deriding others who didn't live up to his standards. Bill had put up with Slade's infuriating and condescending remarks far too many times to ever reconcile with him. But this time, he wanted to see Slade humiliate himself because of his over inflated ego.

Slade picked up his rifle and fired eight bullets in quick succession at the distant target, barely even aiming by the looks of things. He then lowered his rifle, a wide grin plastered across his face.

_What an idiot, _Bill thought. _He just wasted all that ammo to hit a bulls-eye._

He lifted up his binoculars, expecting the target to either be completely hole-free, or at best, be full of holes that were just scattered randomly all over it.

What he saw made his mouth gape open dumbly.

Slade had not just hit a perfect bulls-eye: he had also shot out two holes to the upper left and upper right of it. The remaining five holes smoked in a half circle below the bulls-eye.

In other words, Slade had made a smiley face.

Bill threw down his rifle angrily, causing it to fire and nearly hit a fellow practicing sharpshooter in the leg. "FUCK YOU!"

Slade just burst out laughing. "Thinking outside the square, Bill. Thinking outside the square."

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"YAAAHHH!"

A battered and bruised SEAL flew over Slade and landed hard on the mat.

Slade was in the gym now surrounded by three SEALs in triangular formation for hand to hand combat practice. All of them were certified black belts in Karate and trained to kill. But Slade was in a class of his own. He was a black belt too, but he was also a master of Tae Kwon Do, Aikido and Judo.

But his talents didn't end there. He was an expert in military hardware, software and tactics. He had a talent for turning anything, however trivial, into a lethal weapon. He was familiar with all military grade weaponry and tools, could endure torture both physical and mental and had shaped his body to peak physical condition. He had wasted no time in becoming familiar with everything the military had offered him, and more.

The two SEALs in front of him attacked, the left one aiming a kick and the other drawing a punch. The one behind Slade rushed to tackle him to the ground after taking the hits.

But Slade ducked to avoid the punches, then blocked the other man's kick by grabbing his leg with both hands, and then used the momentum to propel his assailant toward the man behind him who crashed into the man in half-tackle. Slade then swept his leg across the puncher's legs, tripping him up, then swiftly twirled around again to stamp his foot onto the puncher's chest, effectively winding him, spittle spraying from his mouth.

The audience in the gym benches broke out in applause at such a fine display of martial prowess, chanting Slade's name like a war cry.

"**SLADE! SLADE! SLADE! SLADE!"**

Slade coolly stepped off his wheezing victim and punched a fist in the air, acknowledging the crowd.

Suddenly, the SEAL on the ground recovered and punched Slade between the shoulders, amidst the boos of the crowd. Slade retaliated by pretending to fall down, but then within a split second, he spun around under the SEAL's punches and struck him in the stomach, leaving him reeling.

But the SEAL, it seemed, didn't know when to give up. He simply cricked his neck and once again got back into a fighting stance.

"Bill, cut it out. You're exhausted." Slade said sharply.

Slade was right. The exercise had gone on for over half an hour, and William Walsh had several nasty bruises across his face and arms, including a black eye. Slade had bruises as well, but fewer of them, and still felt fresh. Bill, on the other hand, looked ready to pass out.

But he was stubborn, motioning him silently to keep fighting, every fibre of his being filled with hate.

Slade tried once more to reason with him. "For God's sake, Bill, why do this to yourself? Getting beaten to a pulp won't make you any better."

Slade chose the wrong words. Bill raged toward him like a bull, forgoing any rational technique. Hatred coursed through his veins, and all he could think about was _killing him._

So Slade did the only thing he could do to stop Bill's crazed attack: he leaned backwards slightly, then, when he was close enough, quickly leaned forward and punched Bill squarely in the forehead, instantly incapacitating him, blood spurting from his nose.

Several men from the benches came down, along with a medic, to get Bill to the medical wing, while others helped up the others that had fallen to Slade.

Wintergreen approached Slade from the benches. "You couldn't help showing off, could you?"

Slade shrugged. "Bill keeps trying me, old friend. I try to help, but all he does is shoot me down."

"I'm suprised you didn't go harder on them this time. Usually they're limp out with broken wrists and torn ligaments."

"I'm not _that _hard on them."

"I've got the infirmary photos to prove it."

As Wintergreen and Slade left, Bill watched them through heavily bruised and bloodshot eyes, his mouth contorted into a blood-smeared snarl.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Yep, practice fights in the special forces can get absolutely brutal. I watched a Doco on the New Zealand SAS, and they don't hold back at all.

Bill is another character you'll be seeing more of in future. Anyone who's read the comics will recognize him. Speaking of which, I managed to get my hands on some of the old "New Teen Titans" comics. Writers back then knew how to make good stories, and I'm understanding more and more why the comic book fans don't like the animated series as much, or the current comics. I'm kind of trying to get my stories to be in between the two in style.

For good measure, I also got the _Faces of Evil: Deathstroke_ one-shot which partly inspired me to write this story. It's not a bad story, it went through everything somewhat logically, though it could have been better. Today's comic book writers generally deliver quantity over quality these days. It's a crying shame. Except Geoff Johns. He's good.

Oh, and the reference? For those who didn't get it, it was the firing range scene which is a nod to _Lethal Weapon. _Real funny and recommended viewing for octane addicted rednecks.

Until next time. Jeez, I'm setting up alotta people to die very soon...


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